


221B: A New Collection

by AprilFool



Series: 221B [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Anxiety, Autism, Autistic Sherlock, Chemistry, Confused Sherlock, Cute, Deductions, Desire, Doctor John Watson, Dom John Watson, Domestic, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff, Home, Hurt Sherlock, John Watson In Love, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Notebook, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Science Experiments, Sexual Inexperience, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson in Love, Sherlock Thinking, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock's Heart, Sherlock's Mind, Sociopathic Sherlock, Synesthesia, Virgin Sherlock, sherlock's collections, soft, soft sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 17:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10858521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilFool/pseuds/AprilFool
Summary: Sherlock starts a new collection and hurts himself. Also he discovers that John has created an account on a dating website.





	221B: A New Collection

**Author's Note:**

> Ongoing little stories of what happens in 221B Baker Street.  
> Feel free to leave some requests :)

Sherlock lies on the ground and watches John’s feet moving.  
He lies on his back, legs angled, feet on the ground, head tilted to the left, hands folded over his stomach. John might see his knees behind the coffee table. Because it’s that place again. Between sofa and coffee table. Sherlock lies here several times a week. John has gotten used to it by now.  
The first time he was worried. Thought that Sherlock had collapsed or something.  
“Changing perspectives”, was Sherlock’s explanation.

The floor is dirty today. Crumbs and dust everywhere. John hasn’t vacuumed yet.  
I should start a collection of household filth, Sherlock thinks. Does dog hair count as household filth? He has a separate collection for that in the bathroom. He doesn’t think of dogs as filthy creatures.

Sherlock focuses back on John. His mind gets easily distracted these days.  
John is wearing grey socks that disappear under the trouser legs of his jeans.

Socks:  
Colour: Dark grey  
Brand: Unknown (no visible logo, just plain colour, probably H&M as John buys a lot of his clothes there)  
Size: 6.5  
Age: 2+ years (little holes over the dorsum of the foot, faded colour)  
Habits: Growing too small (because of being in the washing machine too often)

John has thirteen pairs of socks, most of them grey, most of them old. Sherlock rummages his flatmate’s drawers sometimes. And, of course, he observes. John even has a favourite pair. Black and white stripes. Sherlock likes ringed patterns.

A cool breeze comes from under the door. Mrs Hudson must have opened a window. Dust particles start to move, get caught in the fibres of the carpet.  
Sherlock is sure now. He has to make a household filth collection. Too convenient to neglect this. It will help solve crimes even faster.

There is a tickle. Sherlock sneezes.  
“Do you clean the flat today?”, he asks.  
“Will you help me?”  
“No.”  
“Then I won’t.”  
I can start my collection today, Sherlock thinks. He leaps to his feet. More careful this time. Cautious to not knock his head on the coffee table again.He shudders. His morning robe is dusty now. He hates it. He shuffles the robe off and lets it fall to the ground. He vanishes into the kitchen to get a tweezer and some clean petri dishes.

When Sherlock kneels down on the carpet John crinkles with his newspaper he is reading.  
“You are not helping me with the cleaning, are you?”  
“No.”  
Because there is no further explanation why his flatmate tears the carpet apart, John decides to get back to his newspaper. But now and then he has to peer at the man on the floor.  
Sherlock is aware of that. He can feel the glances. He bends down a little bit further so his pyjama pants shift out of place. He imagines John licking his bottom lip. _Focus_.

Sherlock extracts a long white hair from the carpet. Doesn’t look like it belongs in here. He is curious. A new dog hair, maybe? Attached to one of their shoes and brought into their flat by accident?

Twenty-five petri dishes are filled soon. The flat really _is_ dirty.  
The newspaper crinkles again. “Is that another collection?”, John asks.  
“Household filth.”  
“Bloody hell, no. How many collections do you already have? How many of them are not stored in your own bedroom?”  
“Well…”  
“Don’t answer. That was a rhetorical question.”  
“Then don’t ask.”  
“And why is it the dust from our carpet?”  
“Household filth. I told you so. Have to inspect the other rooms as well. And other flats, obviously. Do you think Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are fine with that? I think I start with households from people I already know.”  
“Sounds like the beginning of a big collection.” John sighs.  
“I did ask you something, John. And that was not a rhetorical question.” Sherlock whirls around and sinks on the coffee table. He looks at John. Notices a worried look on his flatmate’s face. He is not good at reading other people’s emotions but John is an easy one.  
“Maybe you can start collecting CDs or vinyl figurines or watercolour paintings instead of dust.”  
“John, don’t be dull.”  
“That’s not dull, that’s normal.”  
“I don’t have time for _normal_.”  
John sighs again. “Fine. Go ask Mrs Hudson. I think she is okay with you deep cleaning her carpet.”  
“I need to do our other rooms first. Mind if you don’t clean today?”  
“No problem at all.”

Sherlock collects his petri dishes from the floor and coffee table, brings them to the kitchen where his microscope is located. There are only fifteen clean petri dishes left. Sherlock makes a mental note to order some new ones. Not the 100 pack again, he adds. He should have gone for the 250 option already. He also needs new test tubes. It bothers him that he can’t finish all the rooms in their flat today. Perhaps he can send John to Barts to pick up some petri dishes there.

Sherlock sighs, grabs the fifteen containers and is on his knees again, crawling over the kitchen floor. A single corn flake, bread crumbs, apple seed, peas, pepper. The kitchen is easy. And dirty.

“John?”, Sherlock asks from under the chairs. “John? Can you go to Barts and get me some new petri dishes?”  
“Why would I?”  
“Because I need them.”  
“Then go get them yourself.”  
“I’m busy.”  
“So am I.”  
“You are reading the same newspaper for 37 minutes now. That’s not _being busy_.”  
“It’s Saturday, I don’t have to go anywhere today. I can read for as long as I want.”  
“No, you can’t. I need more containers!”

Accidentally Sherlock touches a sticky spot. Strawberry jam. John’s strawberry jam. Days old. He rubs his fingers on his shirt. Frantically.  
_Disgusting_.  
He has to wash his hands. Now.  
He was calm all morning. Then his robe has gotten dirty. Then he has run out of petri dishes. Then he has touched strawberry jam stuck on the kitchen tiles.

Sherlock wants to get out from under the chairs. A bit hectic now.  
A chair leg scratches the floor, makes an awful noise. Sherlock likes it as long as he is the one moving the chair.  
He gets up, finally. Stumbles.  
He carries seven containers in his left hand. One is falling down now.  
Sherlock watches.  
When the glass hits the floor it breaks into five pieces. The corn flake is on the tiles again.

Sherlock puts the other petri dishes on the kitchen table behind him while he still stares at the broken one. He wants to move aside. Steps into a piece of glass with his left bare foot. The splinter cuts through several layers of skin. Blood and pain. Sherlock gasps.  
_What to do now_?  
He does not know. So he just waits and stares how the blood drips on the floor. It must be a big cut because there is a lot of blood. The foot aches. The glass still inside.

“John”, Sherlock says.  
The crinkling newspaper again.  
“John, I need help.”  
“I don’t go and get you new petri dishes, I told you that before.”  
“No, John. Not petri dishes.”  
John shifts in his armchair. Alarmed by his flatmate’s voice. “Are you okay?”  
“I’m bleeding.”  
In a split of a second he rushes into the kitchen.  
“Look out, I broke a dish.”  
“And you stepped into it. You really _are_ bleeding.”  
“I told you so.” Sherlock’s voice is nearly back to normal.  
John grabs him by his arm and he is lead to his sofa.  
“I get my doctor’s kit. Don’t bleed on the carpet.”  
Sherlock bleeds on the sofa instead, has placed his foot on it.

John is back with his kit and clean towels soon. He sinks down on the sofa. Takes Sherlock’s hurt foot in his hand. Rests it on his leg. Wipes the blood away. Careful. Gentle.  
Because the pain is red, curved and quite big Sherlock can’t concentrate on John’s touch. Synesthesia. Bothers too many senses.

“I need to pull the glass out. That will hurt.”  
Sherlock shrugs. “I’m fine.”  
He observes John.  
Serious look on his face. He is Dr Watson now.  
A bit concerned. He still is John.

The pain turns into a white ray that rushes through Sherlock’s neural system. He makes a sound he is not proud of.  
“It’s okay. I got it.” John’s left hand rests on the bridge of Sherlock’s hurt foot. He can feel the touch, finally. Feels the warmth of John’s hand against his cool skin.

“Want it for a collection?” John smirks, holding up his tweezers that embrace a bloody piece of glass. For a moment Sherlock considers the idea. But he doesn’t collect memories.

John inspects the wound. “No stitches needed, at least. I’ll clean and bandage it.”  
When the disinfection spray hits the hurt area Sherlock shivers. Absent-minded John strokes his foot a few times while working on the wound.

Sherlock wants to observe again.  
John’s facial expression. His hands. The inside of the doctor’s kit. The bandage.  
But Sherlock’s body wants to focus on just one thing: The touch.

What’s wrong?, he thinks. Why isn’t my mind working as usual?  
Maybe he has lost a bit too much blood. No, not enough to stop contemplating.

“I hope there was no dangerous bacteria inside the broken petri dish?”, John asks.  
“No.”  
“Fine. But we should still keep an eye on the wound. I don’t want you to get an infection. I will help with cleaning and bandaging, okay?”  
Sherlock nods. John pats his foot, now wrapped in gauze. It doesn’t hurt anymore. He wants to get up.  
“Wait.”  
“Why?”  
“Just rest a bit. I’ll take care of cleaning the kitchen floor.”  
“I can rest at the microscope.”  
“You don’t make one single step until I’ve cleaned your mess.”  
“Just the broken glass, John. I haven’t finished the kitchen yet.”

Sherlock leans back, closes his eyes. Feels how weight is taken from the sofa as John gets up.  
For a moment John is standing still. Sherlock waits for him to say something.  
One second. Two seconds.  
Then John leaves the living room.

 

Sherlock listens.

Kitchen:  
Breathing (John)  
Sighing (John)  
Scraping (Dust pan, glass splinters, bristles of a broom)  
Living room:  
Breathing (my own)  
Creaking (Sofa)  
Throbbing (my heart)  
Outside:  
Engine noise (Ford? _Mental note_ : Need to compare the sound of car engines)  
In the walls:  
Rushing (water pipes)  
Mrs. Hudson’s flat:  
Rushing (toilet)

 

John is still busy cleaning the kitchen. Sherlock grabs his flatmate’s laptop from the coffee table. He needs to order his new petri dishes. Now.  
He shifts a bit on the sofa, the computer in his lap.  
www.laboratorysupplies.co.uk.  
The 250 option is 300 £. The more one buys the cheaper it gets. Sherlock orders 500. 490 £. He uses his brother’s PayPal-account for payment. Delivery on Tuesday.

Then he goes through John’s browser history. He hasn’t checked since last week.  
Two new websites. A blog about blogging. _Boring_.  
An online dating website. _Really_?  
Sherlock presses the enter button, the website opens.  
Find your partner with one click.  
_That’s extremely dull_. He snorts.  
John isn’t logged in. But that has never been a matter to Sherlock. He knows all his passwords.  
_Obviously_. John uses just three different ones. This time none of them work. It must be the email address. But why has John changed his email address? Also there is no evidence on the computer that he has created a new email account.  
Sherlock is intrigued.  
He needs to dedicate a notebook to John. A whole notebook full of deductions. And now also questions. John has never been a person to ask questions about before. What has changed?  
_No time to waste_.  
Sherlock closes the laptop, gets up, limps into his bedroom.  
The foot hurts again.


End file.
